Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time
by okmeamithinknow
Summary: Cassian meets a mysterious girl at a bar one night and falls in love... Lust... Well he's not sure, but what follows is the craziest, most eventful night of his life.
1. My Name is

My name is "No"  
My sign is "No"  
My number is "No"

"No"- Meghan Trainor

* * *

Cassian is in love, well not exactly love, because Cassian doesn't believe in silly things like love at first sight. It's a trite and juvenile concept that preys on the weak of mind, and even if Cassian's strengths lie in the more physical side of life, he'd be damned if anyone even insinuated that the graduate student couldn't hold his own mentally.

Maybe he is damned though.

Because the sight before him— the heaven sent angel sitting at the bar. The one whose golden-brown hair glistens in an iridescent waterfall down her back, catching the lights off the dance floor. The ones that twinkle like fairies in some savage dance. The deep purple crop top somehow accents the narrowness of her waist and emphasizes other certain appealing qualities, qualities he'd very much like to get to know. Legs that look like they've been poured into the black leather leggings and are begging to be wrapped around him.— has him questioning everything he knows about love, lust, and the female species.

It's the thump of the bass syncing up to the beating of his heart and that kaleidoscopic cacophony of lights. The crowd seems to part and the beat drops when he sees her for the first time, and it feels like his heart has come to a screeching halt along with it.

Maybe it's fate. Maybe it's divine intervention. Because he knows he's never seen the likes of her before. Even if The Night Court, the club that he and his friends frequent, is their usual Friday night haunt, and even if he can't see her face, he's definitely never seen her before. He'd remember those sinful curves, the delicate swaying of her hips as they subconsciously sway to the pounding beat.

They haven't been at the club long, just long enough to establish themselves at a table and so with drink orders on hand— or typed into his phone because he's lost yet another bet so the first round was on him, not that he would need them. Everyone just wants their usual and the bartender knows them.— he strides through the sea of bodies to the bar.

He's all swagger as he approaches the bar and stops next to her. The bar is crowded with revelers vying for drink, and maybe the bartenders number if they're lucky enough to catch his eye. She's close enough to touch and he can feel the warmth radiating from her bare flesh. Cassian is gripped with the sudden urge to stroke a finger down that arm to see if it's as soft as it looks in the dim light. But he resists, waiting to get the feel of the girl before he'll make his advances.

Finally the bartender makes eye contact with him and gives him a quick nod, letting him know his order will be right up. Satisfaction rolls through him at not having to flag the man down and riding that high he turns toward the vision beside him.

Cassian leans on an elbow, cocky smirk written on his face and clears his throat just loud enough to get her attention over the din of the music. She looks up from where she's been scrolling through her phone and oh, those eyes. One look in those blue-grey eyes that seems so familiar and yet he can't recall where he might have seen them and he's gone. So very gone.

She rakes those eyes over him, up and down. Twice.

Then without letting him get a word in edgewise, and with as much contempt as she could muster says just loud enough to be heard,

 _"No."_


	2. No

I think it's so cute and I think it's so sweet

How you let your friends encourage you to try and talk to me

But let me stop you there, oh, before you speak

"No"- Meghan Trainor

* * *

Elain is late.

Elain is late and Nesta is pissed. So very pissed. Like the most angry she's ever been at either one of her younger sisters, and Nesta is so throughly shocked that it's not Feyre that's drawn her ire. That it's sweet, sensitive, cried when they'd dissected frogs in high school, Elain.

She could be back at her apartment right now, curled up under a cozy blanket, text book in hand as she went over her notes from class this week. Finals are coming up and even if Nesta already knows the information forwards and back, staying top of the class doesn't come as easily as her family assumes it is. This last year of law school has been particularly rough, and if Nesta wants to pass the bar and impress the local law firm she's had her eye on she's got more studying to do.

Instead she's here, dressed in clothes she almost feels vulgar wearing, but then again, Elain begged her to wear it and who is she to deny her younger sister. That's why she's here in the first place. It's been weeks since she's seen Elain, even longer since Nesta has seen Feyre, months maybe. Certainly not since the semester started, and this is the first Friday that all three Acheron sisters has been free at the same time since then.

And the only reason, the _only_ reason she hasn't left this stupid bar— to hunt down Elain to make sure she's alright, or to retreat to the sanctuary of laws and court cases— is Elain's constant stream of updates and apologies for running late. Apparently traffic, and picking out the right outfit and then waiting for Feyre and her conceited boyfriend to pick her up, and _he_ was running already late all adds to Nesta standing alone at a bar, uncomfortable, annoyed, and pissed.

She's been waiting at least twenty minutes now and the nicest thing she can say about the club is that the floors are clean and the music is decent. Better than decent if Nesta is being honest, but she'll never admit that, and when the DJ plays a mix of her favorite two guilty pleasure songs, she can't help but sway where she stands.

Her phone buzzes in her hand. Her hand, not her pocket, because it's not like this outfit would have functioning pockets. It's Feyre this time, apologizing again for the delay and assuring her that they're about five minutes from the club. Her grip tightens on the phone and she growls under her breath, knowing that five minutes for Feyre is more like another fifteen.

That's when she hears it, the casual clearing of someone's throat. Nesta turns, the irritation still written on her face. Next to her, looking far too cocksure for her liking is possibly the most handsome man she's seen in a long time. Her eyes sweep over him, head to toe.

He's swarthy and well muscled. The tight fitting jacket does nothing to hide the bulging biceps that lie beneath. The black leather catches the light in a way accents his toned torso. He is gorgeous and dangerous, all wrapped up in one delicious package.

And what's worse, he knows it. He knows it and she doesn't have time for this, for him. For whatever casual game he may want to play. For a relationship in whatever pretty trappings he wants to dress it up in.

Still there's something about him. Something that makes her want to see past the long hair, which shouldn't work, not with the outfit he's wearing, and certainly not with the look and feel of the club, but some how does. The hazel eyes that draw her in, makes her want to know what else lies behind the cool facade he exudes. The smug smirk she doesn't know if she wants to slap or kiss off his face.

And it's that realization that makes her flush, and she hopes that the dim light hides it, or at least that she can pass it off as the heat of the club. She knows, just knows that she needs to shut this down, shut _him_ down, because if she lets him talk, if she lets herself be drawn into this wild, and dangerous looking man, there will be no turning back.

So she makes a decision. She has to be clear, concise because that's the only thing that works on men like him.

Nesta looks him up and down another time, assessing him in her cool manner, disdain oozing from every pore, and doesn't make an effort to hide the distaste from her voice as she tells him,

 _"_ _No."_


	3. All My Ladies Listen Up

All my ladies, listen up

If that boy ain't giving up  
Lick your lips and swing your hips  
Girl, all you gotta say is...  
"No"- Meghan Trainor

* * *

Shocked doesn't even begin to describe how Cassian feels. Not that he minds the chase, but this? This is a first. He's never been outright rejected like this. Without him saying a single word, and so efficiently too.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice still confident, figuring that if he works his charm she'll melt like putty into his hands, but she turns back to the phone in her hands, intent on ignoring him, if Cassian reads her body language correctly.

Cassian takes a step closer, encroaching on her space. She's close enough that the edge of his jacket brushes against her shoulder, and even though he's significantly taller than she is, she doesn't cower in his presence. Instead, she straightens her back, a queen amongst her court. He pauses to give himself time to observe her more. To see past the blockade of rejection she's already thrown at him and he sees her intrigue. Sees through the steely glare she's sending him as he clears his throat again, and to the curiosity and intellect lying behind her cold blue-grey eyes. Sees that there's something that arouses his interest and he's hooked.

"I don't think I heard you…"

"You most certainly did," she snaps. Icy venom drips from her voice and Cassian shivers, the room turning suddenly glacial at her tone.

"Come on sweetheart don't be like that. You don't even know…" But she interrupts him.

"I don't need to know you. There's only two reasons why you'd approach me," she says.

His eyes flash in defiance of her words and she notices. Notices the change in his stance, the predatory gleam in his eye, a feline glint that's matched by her own. A fire sparks in her, a question to challenge him, to see if he really wants an answer, if he's really up to snuff, if he's worth her time.

"Please," he says, voice full of smug curiosity, and a brow cocked in question. "Enlighten me."

* * *

He is looking for a fight Nesta decides. Looking to piss her off, and she's had enough. It may not be his fault that she's here, that her sisters are now thirty minutes late and her feet are starting to hurt from the shoes she's forced herself into. She studies him again, cold and calculating and finds him wanting. Still, she gives him a look. One that gives him the option to run, to flee for his life before she tears into him, before she verbally eviscerates him. When he stares right back at her, arrogant expression on his face both a question and an answer to her look, she feels her temper reach it's boiling point.

Fine, but, if she's going to do this, she's going to do it right. Nesta flips her hair behind a shoulder and away from her face and turns toward him fully. She realizes then, just how close he's gotten. But she can play this to her advantage.

"Option one," she states, holding up a finger. "You're here, at the bar, looking for Mrs. Right, right? Some vapid socialite you can turn into your little missus who will cook and clean and do your laundry…" She presses her palm to his chest and drums her fingers across the leather of his jacket to emphasize her point. He subconsciously leans into the touch, and the action doesn't go unnoticed. He's solid muscle underneath her hand and Nesta has to pull herself away, but again she uses her own hesitation to her advantage, prolonging the motion and turning it into a caress. "…and stroke your ego whenever you want."

"Really now?" he leans closer, their breath mingling, and she realizes if he inclines his head just so… Nope she's not going to finish that thought, about how if he closes that distance they'll be kissing or how soft his lips look or how long it's been since her last kiss. Last date for that matter. Her heart is racing and she hopes that he can't tell.

His breath is ragged and she knows he's lost the battle within himself to not touch her. His fingers brush the stubborn strand of hair that's fallen back into her face. His hand slides down her cheek and he lifts her chin. A sly smile plays at her lips.

"And the other one?" he asks. His voice is a husky rasp.

Her smile blooms into full blown smirk and she leans forward. Nesta's cheek presses against his. It's rough and the stubble scratches her skin.

"You're just looking for a quick fuck," she whispers, the sound just barely audible above the noise of the club. She breathes gently into his ear, and a shudder runs down his spine. She chuckles to herself and leans back against the bar.

* * *

Cassian is both shocked and aroused at her vulgarity, and what was once an unexpected attraction is a visceral need now. Not necessarily to seduce her, though that would definitely be a perk. No, Cassian wants to crack through the shell she's so very obviously built around herself, find the real her that he can tell lies behind walls and fortifications.

"You seem to know quite a lot about me," he smirks. "And you don't even know my name."

"Doesn't matter." She waves a dismissive hand at him. "Either way, it starts the same. First you're going to say that you aren't playing some silly game, thinking if you say it in a convincing enough tone that I'll believe every word. You'll call me beautiful, which is so original, by the way," she scoffs, "You'll whisper sweet nothings into my ear, telling me I'm not like other girls…"

"What if I told you," he says, stopping her and Cassian pushes closer to her again. "that there's a third option? That there's something between a trophy wife and a causal fuck."

He grips her shoulder softly, and runs a callous thumb over her skin. It's as soft as he suspected and he bites back a groan. It's almost as if she's expecting it, welcoming the touch and she takes a step forward, chest pressed against his.

"I would say," she licks her lips as she leans up again, and Cassian is transfixed as she comes closer. "I'm. Not. Interested." and jabs her knee straight into his groin.


	4. Ooh na na, What's My Name

Ooh na na, what's my name

Ooh na na, what's my name

Ooh na na, what's my name

Whats my name, whats my name….

"What's My Name?" -Rihanna

* * *

Cassian knows to quit when he's beat, and he has definitely been beaten. So when she leaves, walks away without another word, he doesn't follow. He can barely breathe as it is and so as soon as she's out of sight, he heads back to his table. He's not fleeing, he tells himself. He's just making a calculated retreat, and it's not like he's ever going to see her again. So why should it even matter.

He should have waited for his drinks though before returning to the table, because when he does get back sans drinks there's a chorus of feminine groans from the table. A pair of hazel eyes, much like his own, takes in Cassian's pained expression and the delicate shift in his gait and Cassian knows that his brother understands what he doesn't want to explain. He sits down, not the usually flinging of his body into the booth, but a far more tender slump.

"Where are our drinks?" asks a lilting voice.

Cassian looks up from where he's pressed his head into his hands. _Mor._ Of course it's Mor that asks, and from the sly expression on her face and the dark look Azriel is shooting her, she knows. He just doesn't know if he can explain it, the bickering and what he thought was obvious sexual tension that led up to him getting kneed in the groin. He's not all quite sure what the hell just happened anyway, just that if his friends find out, he will _never_ live it down.

But he's saved by the appearance of the familiar face of one of servers delivering their drinks. Drinks will distract them, he hopes. But that hope is short lived. Nuala— or maybe it's her twin sister Cerridwen, Cassian can never tell even after all these years of visiting The Night Court, only because the two of them take great pleasure out of dressing alike to mess with drunken patrons— sets the tray down onto the table and offers Cassian a small sad smile.

"Sorry about earlier," she says, patting Cassian on the shoulder and his eyes grow wide. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, but she doesn't catch it. "With that girl, at the bar…"

Cassian groans and drops his head into his awaiting palms again. Nuala sensing her mistake, from Cassian's reaction and the feral gleam in Mor and her other companion's eyes, a companion that even Cassian is hesitant to cross, makes a quick exit.

There's a tap at his shoulder and Mor sings his name. Literally sings it, in what is possibly the most annoying cadence Cassian has ever heard. He shakes his head with a groan, refusing to make eye contact, but a second voice joins in. He looks up, locking eyes with Mor, who smiles a saccharinely sweet smile, and then with Amren and from the wicked glint in her silver eyes, Cassian knows he's screwed.

So he tells them, in as few details as he can managed about the golden haired beauty with fire in her eyes that knocked him for a loop. When he finishes, Cassian can barely see the top of Amren's head from where she leans over in the giant booth, close to falling on the floor and clutching her sides as she laughs at him. Mor is sprawled across her boyfriend's lap, face buried in Az's neck to muffle the sounds of her laughter and Az, to his credit, is at least trying not to laugh. Cassian's face is probably bright red from the burn he can feel across his cheeks and he quickly changes the subject, asking Az if he's seen the rest of their friends.

"You know how Rhys is," Az responds, a chuckle on his lips. A chuckle that Cassian knows is more at him than their wayward companion and Cassian sends him a glare. "He's probably getting…"

"Az, I wanna go dance," Mor says abruptly, patting his shoulder.

The song's changed and the boys know this is one of her favorites and when Mor wants to dance, nothing will stop her. Azriel sends him a look that's half apologetic and half a plea for help, as the two stand, and Mor drags him off to the dance floor. Amren smirks, having recovered from her fit and settled into her seat. She watches the club with a feline grace and sips at her blood orange cosmo.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Cassian is still nursing his drink like it's his wounded pride when Mor returns from the dance floor. She seems almost too eager as she slips into the booth next to Az, who snuck back to the booth three songs ago, while Mor was distracted by the music. When Cassian shoots her a look, she smiles, a big cheshire like grin plastered on her face.

"You," she says, smile growing ever wider as she inclines her head back towards the bar, "are so fucked."

She turns her attention behind her. It's then that he notices the couple trailing after her, Rhys, and his girlfriend, both dressed in black like death incarnate, like they knew today would be the day he died. He nods in recognition. That's when the two separate and his stomach jumps into his throat.

How he missed the similarities between the golden haired beauty at the bar, and his brother's girlfriend is beyond him. But now seeing the two standing side by side, the expression on the girl's face as incredulous as Cassian feels, there's no denying the family resemblance.

And when Feyre introduces the women in between her and Rhys as her sisters, Nesta and Elain, Cassian knows that Mor is right.

He is so _unbelievably_ fucked.


	5. Baby you're a challenge

….You got that something

That keeps me so off balance

Baby you're a challenge

Lets explore your talent

"What's My Name?" -Rihanna

* * *

 _Nesta._

Her name is Nesta and Cassian curses whatever fate that's thrown them together. And by fate he means _his_ brother and _her_ sister for not at least warning him. There's something like recognition on his face and Feyre notices, damn her and her eye for details.

"Have you two…" she starts to ask.

"We've met," Nesta states, her voice flat and unimpressed as she looks Cassian dead in the eye, and then turns to survey the rest of the table.

"Nesta," he purrs with a slight nod to the woman. He smiles at her, when her eyes finally return to him, slow and every bit as vicious as he's feeling. "Nice to meet you. Come here often?"

"Why do I feel like I missed something?" Feyre says, gaze shifting between her friends and her family.

Mor gives her a pointed look that promises to fill her in later, and inwardly Cassian cringes. He lets none of it read on his face though as he studies Nesta, seeing past the careful and weak facade to the cunning predator that lurks beneath, and he finds that he likes it. That he'd much rather have this creature, the mountain cat, rather than the doe he'd assumed she was when he'd first approached her at the bar. It's been a while since anything has challenged him and now Cassian relishes the opportunity to take on a new and enticing opponent.

The fact that she's Feyre's sister makes it that much more interesting, and he systematically rifles through his memories to recall anything that Feyre has told them about her sisters, even in passing.

Rhys clears his throat and inclines his head towards Feyre's other sister, and its then that Cassian realizes his faux pas. He's been staring at Nesta for so long that the rest of their friends have had enough time to greet the rest of their party. So Cassian turns to the the other Archeron sister. She's beautiful, possibly the most beautiful of the three girls, but the innocence and a straight forward sweetness on her face pales in comparison to the fiery temper of her older sister.

Elaine smiles, a timid greeting on her lips and sits across from Amren, who shifts in the booth to make room for the girls. Rhys throws himself into the only available chair at the head of the table, dragging Feyre into his lap, leaving the seat across to Cassian open. She hesitates for a beat, glaring at Cassian as though it was his fault.

"Come on, Nesta," Cassian chuckles, "We don't bite. Unless you ask us to."

He adds a wink hoping to unsheathe those lovely claws, hoping to make her see red. There's a growl from the girl like roiling thunder or the electric beat of the bass, and Cassian watches with a smirk as Nesta sets down her drink, hard. The clink of the ice against the glass sounds as she seats herself on the edge of the seat.

"The last I heard, Cassian," Rhys says with looking over at Cassian from where he's resting his head on Feyre's shoulder, "No one has ever taken you up on that offer."

Az snorts and chokes on his water as Cassian gives him a crude gesture.


	6. Raise Your Glass

So raise your glass if you are wrong,

In all the right ways,

All my underdogs,

We will never be never be, anything but loud

And nitty gritty dirty little freaks

Won't you come on and come on and raise your glass,

Just come on and come on and raise your glass

"Raise Your Glass" -P!nk

* * *

He says her name for the first time, and it rolls off his tongue with such seductive grace that Nesta steels her back, suppressing the shiver that threatens to work its way down her spine. The man from the bar, Cassian, is most decidedly dangerous, far more dangerous than she realized at the bar if he's friends with her sister. Friends with an ease she's yet to see with any of her other friends judging by the way she laughs so freely at their jokes and jabs. When Nesta sits at the table, she wonders at the family Feyre seems to have created for herself and it burns a bit.

There's a tense and awkward silence at the table, one that Elain attempts to abolish by trying to talk to Az, who is the least dangerous looking of the group, but the conversation soon lags. Lags until Mor shimmies her way out of the booth, and turns to the table.

"I'm going to go get us drinks," she declares with a smile, and when Nesta goes to protest stating that she's perfectly fine with her water, because Nesta needs to stick to her ridiculously strict budget or next month the whole starving student thing won't really be a myth. But Mor insists, "Don't be silly. Rhys is paying anyway, aren't you cousin?"

Rhys rolls his eyes and groans dramatically, but it's all for show and Mor knows that. So she kisses his cheek and slinks off into the crowd in the direction of the bar. Feyre explains in her wake that Rhys' dad owned The Night Court and passed it down to his son as well as several other properties and clubs around the city including the townhouse that the two of them share with Mor. So yes, on nights like these where they all go out, Rhys often foots the bill. But something else in the exchange catches Nesta's attention.

"Wait, cousin?" Nesta says, eyes narrowing on Rhys, "I thought Azriel and Cassian were your brothers, and if she's your cousin…"

"Mor is my cousin in the loosest sense of the word. Her dad and my dad are something like second cousins once removed, or something like that. As for Az and Cas…"

"We're adopted," Cassian interrupts, proud grin on his face. Rhys and Azriel nod in confirmation. Nesta turns that icy glare his direction again and Cassian's grin falters a bit.

"Adopted?" Elain asks and there's something in the sweetness of her tone that begs for the story.

Rhys looks at Cassian, knowing it's his story to tell.

"My mom died when I was little," he begins, shifting his focus between the two sisters, "She never listed my father on my birth certificate and we were the only family each other had, so I got tossed into the foster care system. I was a pretty unruly kid, so I bounced around from family to family for a while. I met Rhys when we were eight. The family I was with at the time lived in the same school district as him and we were in the same class together. I took one look at him with his clean clothes and brand new sneakers and I wanted them for myself."

"He was a scrappy little guy who loved to pick fights," Rhys adds with a smirk.

"Hey, you try living off hand me downs." There's a joking smile on Cassian's face that doesn't quite meet his eyes that makes Nesta reassess him for a moment, until he adds, "Besides, you were so clean and new and looked… different, and I'd beaten every boy our age twice over already."

Rhys shakes his head and laughs with the rest of the table, who have obviously heard the story enough times to know what's coming.

"Anyway," Rhys continues the story when Cassian doesn't pick it back up, "He beat the snot out of me, but I got in a few good shots in before our teacher pulled him off me and sent us to the principal's office. They called our parents to come pick us up and my mom got there just in time to see Cas' foster dad slap Cassian in the parking lot. I'd never seen her so pissed in my life. My mother was soft and fiery and beloved by everyone she met. When she found out Cas was in the system, she called his social worker directly. Dad had a lot of pull with the city back then and they managed to get Cas out of the system and with us."

"Were you friends after that?" Elain asks.

"Hell no!" Cassian says with a laugh. This time the smile is genuine as the two brothers exchange looks. "It wasn't until we were eleven and Az joined us that we even tried to get along. Rhys' mom was friends with Az's mom and when she passed, rather than living with his asshole of a dad, he came to live with us. Which was a good thing cause his stepmom and half brothers were real pieces of work too."

Azriel nods, the quieter man looking like he wants to melt into the shadows, but Mor chooses that point to return to the table. He brightens instantly, all traces of shadows clinging to his eyes disappearing in a blink. She sets down a tray filled with shot glasses and Nesta blinks in surprise at the copious amount of alcohol there.

"I'm back," she sings. "And I brought some social lubricant!"


	7. Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Spare me your freakin' dirty looks

Now don't blame me

You roll the cash out

And get the hell out of town

Don't be a baby

Remember what you told me

Shut up and put your money where your mouth is

"Waking Up In Vegas" -Katy Perry

* * *

Mor passes out the shots like a talk show host hands out cars, with vigor and enthusiasm to spare, and Feyre is grateful. This first meeting of her biological and found family is not going as well as she'd hoped, and the addition of alcohol doesn't create the immediate rapport she's obviously looking for, if the bickering Cassian and Nesta have been doing since Mor's return is any indication.

Nesta spent the first few minutes after her sisters and Rhys arrived loudly and quite thoroughly berating her youngest sister for their tardiness. Mor had found them mid-rant, and when they'd left to find the rest of their party, Nesta had moved on in her tirade to the arrogant bastard who'd accosted her twenty minutes earlier. Yes, he'd been gorgeous and gods, his voice. _His voice_. It had been that alluring timbre that was a flame to the vapid moths that flitted around the bar. And she'd wanted to dive face first into his scent, because whatever cologne he wore was delicious. But he was cocky, so full of himself that she'd been surprised that he'd fit into the club.

And Mor knew instantly who Nesta was talking about. So on her way to fetch drinks, Mor had taken the opportunity to fill Feyre in via text about their clandestine meeting. Because it's been a while since Cassian's had a challenge and the big baby has been getting pretty whiny lately, and really the lack of intrigue and scandal in their little group of friends is tedious.

But after a few drinks, the dirty looks Nesta is still sending him in response to his racy jests are enough to corrode iron. Not even Elain's gentle prodding and attempts to distract her are working, and Feyre frets over how much longer her eldest sister will go without retaliating. She looks at Mor, and the wink her blonde friend sends her lets Feyre know that Mor's sensed the danger as well.

Mor slams down a now empty shot glass onto the table, declaring loudly, "How about a game!"

It's distracting enough that it startles the two from the weird sexually charged stare down they've been having, Cassian from where he's sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that could only be interpreted as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent, and Nesta, well she's staring back with an equal fervor and Feyre can't tell if they want to kill or fuck each other. The rest of the table turn to where Mor is perched on Azriel's lap, like a queen upon her throne.

"Let's play truth or drink or dare!" she says, a feline grin tugs at the corners of her lips.

Cas and Rhys groan, knowing by the gleam in her eye how this is gonna end, but when Amren smirks and says she's in they know they have no choice but to play. Feyre is desperate, and she's willing to try anything. Az will play, he's always in, cause it's Mor and he'll deny her nothing. There's no way in hell that Nesta wants to play any such game, and when she turns to Elain hoping that she'll have some sort of excuse to get out of it, and sees the sunny smile on her middle sister's face, she wonders what sort of deity she's pissed off. Because that's the only logical explanation for the all around weird series of coincidences that is this night.

"It's just like truth or dare," Mor explains when Nesta looks at her with questioning. "Only you can take a shot if you decide you're not brave enough."

There's a sinister gleam in Mor's eyes that sets Nesta's teeth on edge.

"I'm the designated driver," she says through gritted teeth.

"Az can drive you," Mor says, looking down at her boyfriend who rolls his eyes, and agrees "He's got a van, and there's room. If you don't mind a stop before we head home. We have to be some place around eleven, but after that we can drop you off."

Nesta still isn't sure, but then Cassian— Cauldron boil her, Cassian.— locks on to her and the taunting look in his eye that challenges her, beckons her to come play with them, and the grip she has on her glass is the only thing keeping her from launching herself across the table.

"Come on, Nesta," he purrs, "Afraid of a little fun, or are you all talk?"

She snarls, the sound coming from deep in her throat, "I'm in."


	8. We R Who We R

Tonight we're going har har-har ha-ha-hard  
Just like the world is our our-our our-our-ours  
We're tearin' it apart part-part pa-pa-part  
You know we're superstars, we are who we are

"We R Who We R" -Ke$ha

* * *

The challenge in his eye makes her blood boil in her veins, and Nesta is shocked at how quickly this man has been able to get under her skin. One look and she's agreeing to play some juvenile drinking game with her sisters and people who up until an hour ago were complete strangers. Nesta doesn't know it now, but she'll forget who goes first, or what questions are asked. She will remember noting that the way they play is nice at first, the tentative niceties of a group of people unsure of how far to push social boundaries with the newcomers to the group, but as the first couple rounds of drinks and dares run their course, the questions become more savage and the dares more audacious.

It's Cassian daring Mor to give the seemingly unsuspecting Azriel a lap dance— to which Mor swears vengeance and performs the task, red-faced, and then sits down _next_ to her boyfriend who's blushing just a furiously as she is— that sets them down a strange and slippery slope.

Mor then demands the truth about the scar over Rhys' left eyebrow. He's never told anyone the truth of it; a kitten scratching him when he'd tried to cuddle it in high school. His spirits are high enough tonight though that doesn't mind the teasing he knows he'll get, so he finally spills, receiving many catcalls and embarrassing wolf whistles. Far more than the story deserves.

But both of those are nothing compared to the dare Rhys issues Amren. A twerk off between her and Elain sends the entire group into catastrophic giggles, and Rhys is forced to call it a draw, lest he embarrass Elain or piss off Amren. Neither of which he's willing to do, sober or not.

So it continues, each dare and truth growing more and more outrageous.

Until finally, a slightly buzzed Feyre turns to Azriel, who up until this point has only been dared to and successfully juggled empty shot glasses. She's had more than a couple shots, by Nesta's estimate, each before she's completed her tasks. _"For courage"_ she's said each time, _"Not because she's chickening out"_. And when Azriel chooses truth, Feyre leans back, pressing her back into Rhys' chest, drunken giggles bursting from her mouth and Nesta worries because she can't remember the last time her sister has giggled like this. Can't remember a time or a group of people where Feyre's let loose like she has tonight, and probably on other occasions.

"When are you going to man up and ask Mor to marry you?" Feyre asks with a flash of feral glee.

Rhys draws in an audible breath as does Cassian who chokes on his drink, thumping his chest to clear his airways of the burning liquid. Amren whistles and both Elain and Nesta freeze. But somehow Azriel is only slightly startled.

"You don't have to answer that," Mor says in a hurry, scrambling to gain her bearings. She looks at Azriel in a panic, waving her hands as her words come out in a rush. "You don't have to answer that. I know we're waiting until you're ready and I'm ready, life is good right now, like really, really good, and I love you and I love what we have and it was _not_ ok for Feyre to ask that of you, especially when you can't get out of answering."

She glares at Feyre, a deep and seething glare that promises trouble later, but she completely misses the look of calm on Azriel's face. He just chuckles, dark and low and just barely above the sound of the music around them.

"When you admit that you and Rhys eloped last week, and the real reason that all of us are here tonight is because you wanted to tell all of us together," he says and all eyes snap back to the youngest Archeron sister, well former Archeron sister.

"Who told you?" she demands, looking at Rhys who shrugs and immediately denies telling anyone, adding that he's been cooped up in the townhouse—celebrating he added with a wink. "I didn't tell anyone either. How did you figure it out?"

"The shadows told me," he says through his laughter, and when no one picks up the joke, he gestures to her hands where she's wringing them in her lap. "You think I wouldn't recognize Rhys' mom's wedding ring? You know, the one she gave to him when he graduated from high school; the one you're wearing on the wrong hand hoping that none of us will notice."

Feyre's cheeks flush a brilliant scarlet, looking down at her hands where she's been fiddling with the ring in question. Nodding, she slips it off and places it onto her left hand.

"Oh. My. God," Mor exclaims, and Elain echoes the sentiment with equal fervor.

"You can't be serious," Nesta says.

"Surprise," Rhys winces as Cas gives him a congratulatory slap on the arm and the table explodes with a flurry of questions and congratulations.


	9. Cake By The Ocean

You're a real-life fantasy, you're a real-life fantasy

But you're moving so carefully; let's start living dangerously

Talk to me, baby

I'm going blind from this sweet sweet craving, whoa-oh

Let's lose our minds and go fucking crazy

"Cake By The Ocean" -DNCE

* * *

Another half hour goes by and the table is once again bathed in a tense silence, one strikingly more hostile and laden with heated glances than before, if only because it's less crowded.

Elain and Amren have hit the dance floor. Each were equally impressed with the other's skills from their earlier dance off, and are now taking turns showing each other various moves. Feyre and Rhys have followed them, not wanting to miss her sister, and their intimidating friend cut loose like this. Amren doing the running man is a sight forever ensconced into the recesses of their brains and Nesta won't be surprised if there's a video of the two online by morning.

Mor is somewhere nearby having coaxed Azriel away from his brothers and onto the dance floor. Nesta wonders briefly how relieved the two of them are that Feyre and Rhys' news distracted the rest of the group enough that no one noticed that Azriel never really answered Feyre's question.

Rhys and Feyre's unexpected news has cut through the awkward atmosphere from before; the girls shooting off rapid fire questions to Feyre's surprise and delight and the boys and Amren making crude jokes at Rhys' expense. All hell breaks loose when the two announce that they'll be having a reception with all the bells and whistles next summer when Feyre's done with school. Elain and Mor have bonded over picking out bridesmaids dresses and floral arrangements.

Feyre has to step in at one point, throwing herself between Amren and Mor as the two bicker over what types of jewelry the girls should outfit themselves in. Amren is definitely down with bedazzling her entire ensemble if need be, where as Mor is dead set against anything that might detract from Feyre's day. And if Feyre doesn't notice that Nesta lacks the same amount of enthusiasm as her other sister and the rest of her friends, she doesn't show it.

So now it's Nesta and Cassian, and a table filled with shot glasses. Some are still full, Mor having underestimated the groups willingness to perform silly dares or answer embarrassing questions. Cassian takes the opportunity to slide into the booth next to Nesta, who scowls at him briefly before turning back to watching her sisters on the dance floor. He'd asked her to dance when everyone else left, but she'd turned him down with the same cold tone as before.

"So," he says, and its an awkward and uncomfortable second while he scrambles for something to say. In all his years, what feels like five centuries of picking up women at bars and clubs and even a couple at the gym, and he's never felt as tongue tied as he feels looking at this woman next time. This woman who's suddenly family. "Looks like we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other."

"Apparently," she replies without looking at him. She's poured enough ice in that one word to try to freeze him out, but he sees past it.

She leans heavily on her hand, looking almost bored, though the expression doesn't fool Cassian. He knows she's watching out for her sisters, a lioness watching over her pride. Rhys glances over and gives Cassian a quizzical look. Cassian waves a hand, telling him to go back to his wife. Time passes and the two sit in silence, at least three songs worth, and Cassian has had enough.

"Hey," Cassian says, pausing when she finally meets his eye. He dips his head in a sharp nod to the shot glass in front of her. "Truth, drink, or dare?"

She gives him a look that says, _'Really, you're going to play this game?'_ , to which Cassian just grins at her. It's a playful grin laced with an openness that Nesta can't seem to resist so she sighs, shakes her head, and says, "Truth."

"Why'd you reject me?" he asks, cutting straight to the point. There isn't any reason for him to tiptoe around the subject, especially if they're going to see each other again. Maybe he'll catch her off guard and actually get a straight answer by asking

"You know why," she says, folding her arms across her chest. But she knows that he won't accept that answer, especially not if he's asking so candidly. So she buys herself time to think of an answer that he'll believe, even if it isn't the truth. "I already told you."

"No," he says, "Why'd you _really_ tell me no? And don't give me that 'I'm too busy for a relationship right now' spiel or the 'I don't do one night stands' crap. Why did you really tell me no?"

"Why does it even matter?" she retorts.

"Ah ah," he waves a finger under her nose and Nesta fights the urge to break it. "It's your truth, not mine. You don't want to answer it, there's always another option." Cassian points to the full shot glass in front of her.

"You see them?" she asks, gesturing to where Rhys has his arms wrapped around Feyre's waist. She looks so happy and more carefree as they dance together than Nesta has seen her in a long time, since they were little at least. Since their mom died. "Sure they're happy now, but how long before trouble comes and Feyre sacrifices some part or all of herself for him? Or he leaves her? Or has an affair?"

It's then that Nesta notices the gleam, the complete lack of amusement in his eye. She's definitely said the wrong thing to draw his ire.

"You say that like you know my brother. Like he would ever do anything to hurt your sister." And there a fierceness to his voice that chills her bones when he says, "He'd tear the world apart to protect your sister, to keep her safe and happy. To keep her happy and healthy. To keep that look on her face."

He points back to the dance floor where Feyre is tucked beneath Rhys' chin and the two of them are slow dancing, even though their pace doesn't match the beat of the music around them. Feyre looks so at peace that Nesta's heart hurts.

Nesta has no response besides a terse _'We'll see',_ and because she's tired of sitting there in silence and there's still at least another hour before Azriel has promised to take them home, and she and Elain can make their exit, she turns back to Cassian and asks, "Truth, drink, or dare?"

Cassian raises an eyebrow at her. "Truth," he says nonchalantly.

"If you and Rhys hated each other, what changed?"

There's an honesty to the question, honesty and a test, as if she's challenging him to change her mind. So he tells her, the abridged version of course, of his childhood and Rhys. Tells her of his brother and all of the good things he's done in his life, done for Feyre and done for Cassian, and yes this includes his flaws and foibles, but he paints this picture of his brother for Nesta, painted in broad swaths of color and character like Feyre paints a portrait. Tells her far more than he would under any other circumstance but this, and as he tells her of his brother's qualities the ones he admires and the ones that make him a complete pain in the ass, he's really revealing himself to Nesta. He notices a shift in her stance, as if she's re-evaluating him and when she picks dare, he grabs her hand and tries again.

"Dance with me?" he asks and there's glimmer in his eyes that's an almost boyish hopefulness, but she shoots him down again, reaching for her shot glass and downing the burning liquid in one go.

"Cauldron, who hurt you so bad that you won't even dance with me?" he asks.

The tone flippant, and even though he doesn't mean it, real fear flashes in her eyes. She swallows, shutting out memories. She can't breathe, can't fight the panic that's bubbling up inside her, and as much as she hopes that Cassian doesn't notice she knows he does.

Because his hopefulness is gone, erased into something else… Rage. He's gone murderously calm and can barely grind out, "Who?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says and makes to withdraw her hand.

He grips it, faster than she can detect and pins to his chest. His heart is beating at a gallop now. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, this male.

"Did someone hurt you?" he asks, his voice so guttural she can barely understand it.

The wrath, the utter stillness with which he sits. His hand presses into hers, calluses scraping. She hasn't answered him, won't answer him. She stares at him and his face shifts again, the hand pushing her own against his chest eases. Cassian's thumb strokes the back of her hand, the pad of it rough with calluses, from what she doesn't know. He blinks, mouth parting slightly, as though he's going to ask her again.

"No," she says to him. "No."

She's a coward, but she can't answer him. So she flees. Hasty words fly from her lips. She's going to the bar to refill the water that sits half full on the table in front of her. Nesta makes it to the bar, leans against it heavily, not caring that the patrons around her are staring. They don't matter anyway. This night has been terrible she decides. Terrible, and there's nothing that could possibly make it any worse.

But that's when she hears an all too familiar voice calling her name. It's a voice she told herself long ago that if she never heard it again she would die happy.

Tomas.


	10. True Colors

All my life, one page at a time

I'll show you my, my true colors

And no-n-no, I won't apologize for the fire in my eyes

Let me show you my, my true colors, it ain't no rainbow

"True Colors" - Zedd featuring Ke$ha

* * *

Cassian is an idiot. An absolute idiot and he knows it. Mere seconds after Nesta storms away and he's on his feet ready to go after her.

To demand she tell him who, because whoever it is that's hurt her—hurt her enough that she panics like she just did. Where Cassian can almost smell the fear pouring off of her.— deserves a special place in hell. A place Cassian will be more than happy to send him. He's livid and the overwhelming urge to hunt them down and shatter every bone in their body; the rage that's swirling through his veins makes his feel like he's ready to burst out of his skin.

To apologize, to grovel and hopes that at the end of his apology she won't have taken it out on his balls. Because he should have known better and if Mor or Rhys or gods forbid Feyre find out that he's made this blunder he can kiss any prospects of reproducing in this lifetime

So Cassian makes for the bar, because everything in him, some primal urge that he can't silence, is screaming at him to go to her, but a hand stops him.

Shit. _Shit._

Feyre.

She's alone, and from the look on his sister in law's face, she's seen enough to piece together a general idea of what happened.

"Sit," she tells him and her tone tells him it's not a choice.

Shit. Cassian will be lucky if he escapes this night unscathed. He sits. Sits and his stomach is in his throat as he braces himself, waiting for Feyre to rake him over the coals. Darkness pours off of her in almost a tangible mist and the family resemblance is uncanny. Cassian kicks himself for not seeing it at first. He makes to apologize, to insist that he needs to go find her, to make things right, but Feyre stops him before he can open his mouth.

"Nesta is different from most people," Feyre explains, "She comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it's a wall. A shield."

"Against what?"

"Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything—sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly. She will never be like Mor," Feyre says, gesturing to the blonde who waves at the table from the dance floor. "She will never love freely and gift it to everyone who crosses her path. But the few she does care for… I think Nesta would shred the world apart for them. Shred herself apart for them. It's why she's studying to be a lawyer. She saw what the system, how much it screwed over our family, how it screws over kids, and decided to do something about it."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I just—" she pauses, "thought you should know… Things didn't end well with her last boyfriend. Her only boyfriend for that matter. I don't know exactly what happened. Just that she showed up at the townhouse in the middle of the night, upset and near hysterics. She wouldn't tell me what happened; made me promise not to tell Elain what happened, just that he made Tamlin look like a saint in comparison."

Feyre shudders at the memory, and Cassian whistles. He remembers Feyre's ex-boyfriend and the rocky start of her relationship with his brother. Tamlin hadn't been all bad, but the emotional scars he'd left on Feyre were enough that Feyre had come to him for self-defense training.

There's an expectant look on his sister-in-law's face and he realizes that she's waiting for him to say something, to make a move. Cassian reaches across the table to grab her hand.

"Thanks," he says and there's so much sincerity in that one word that Feyre nods at him.

He pats her hand one last time and then makes for the bar again. Set on making things right, because now that he's examined everything she's told him tonight; what he knows of Feyre's and subsequently the rest of the Archeron sisters' past and now this. Now everything makes sense and he's determined to make it up to her.


	11. Shake It Off

A.N. I honestly don't think you guys are ready for this chapter, but I know I am! Reviews make the world go round.

* * *

My ex-man brought his new girlfriend

She's like "Oh, my god!" but I'm just gonna shake.

And to the fella over there with the hella good hair

Won't you come on over, baby? We can shake, shake, shake

"Shake It Off" -Taylor Swift

* * *

This is possibly the worst day in a long while Nesta decides. She can really only think of a handful of times worse than this, and certainly none since "The Incident" with 'He-whom-we-do-not-speak-of'. And now, on top of everything that's happened tonight, that particular he is standing before her. She wants to vomit.

The panic is back in full force, but the area around the bar is too crowded for her to squeeze through again, especially now that he's noticed her. She steels herself, forcing the terror into a much more familiar feeling. Rage. She can do this, Nesta tells herself. Can get through seeing him, and whatever nonsense he wants to spew at her. And if he wants to be a shit and cause a scene, well then she'll let him have it, then get the hell out of here.

And if she's lucky he'll avoid running into either of her sisters. Feyre can take care of herself and on the off chance she can't, then she's got her husband. But if he does happen upon Elain, then the Mother and the Cauldron save him. She'll make what she did to Cassian look like nothing.

"Nesta," he says, and her skin crawls at the proprietary tone he's using. She needs a shower, or seven, or maybe just dumped into a vat of sanitizer from the lecherous way he's ogling her.

"Tomas," she spits. There's enough venom in her voice to stop an elephant, but somehow he's not even phased. Instead the smirk on his face just grows wider.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says.

"Save it," Nesta says. She squares herself, like a solider bracing himself for battle, and shoots him her darkest look, hoping that if she pours enough fire and ice and steal behind her eyes that it will scare him off. But Tomas hasn't ever been the smartest guy around. Not for the first time Nesta wonders what she really saw in him when they'd started dating.

"Aw come on baby," Tomas says, reaching to stroke a finger down her cheek. Nesta flinches and tries to slap his hand away.

"No." The word is firm and so is her stance.

Tomas looks like he's going to say something, but a red headed woman, who looks to be barely more a girl and is dressed in an impossibly small dress, shimmies to his side. He looks down with a smirk, and graces Nesta with the sight of possibly what is the most revolting kiss she's ever seen. There's tongue and saliva and slurping sounds that will haunt Nesta's nightmares. A perfect time for her to escape while he's distracted, but his eyes remain open, watching her, as he makes out with this girl. When she moves to leave, turns away from the bar and takes a single step, Tomas grabs her hand. He won't let go, and he's still making out with the girl. She must have her eyes closed because his eyebrows crinkle in a devious smile, and winks at Nesta. She's going to be sick. Throw up right on his shoes and then he'll leave her the hell alone. But before she gets the chance the girl peels back from his face with a wet sticky sound.

"Have you met my new girl?" he asks. His voice is sickeningly sweet, and Nesta's stomach turns again at the sound. "Ammie, this is Nesta. You know. The one I was telling you about."

He still has her hand, and now he's rubbing the back of it with his thumb. Tomas's free hand wraps around the bare skin of Ammie's waist, knuckles brushing against the underside of her breast. She needs to get out of here, get out of there right now or she's going to be sick. So she attempts to jerk her hand free, but pain shoots up Nesta's arm as he tightens his grip. His girlfriend's grin is almost a vicious as Tomas' is and now Nesta is frantic. A feeling she's not used to and never wants to feel again.

Tomas goes to say something more, but doesn't get the chance before someone calls her name. While she doesn't need some knight in shining armor to save her, she's never been happier to hear her own name in her life and she could sob in relief.

Cassian.

* * *

Cassian makes it to the bar. With her short stature, he isn't sure if he'll be able to find Nesta right away, or even if he's gone in the right direction. But something in his gut tells him that's she's gone this way, and his gut has yet to steer him wrong. Sure enough, he finds her, but something in his soul screeches at him that there's something wrong with what he's seeing. He pauses, surveying the scene to gather more information before jumping headlong into battle.

Her stance is wrong. She's standing there like a warrior princess braced for battle and while he expected that after their encounter earlier, it's who the look is directed at that's got him so confused. Nesta is glaring daggers at some guy, some guy who Cassian can only describe as some douche who's got some chick clinging to his arm and who's looking at Nesta like he owns her. From what Cassian can tell, and the look she's giving him that he'd never want to be on the receiving end of, she's holding her own.

But regardless of how well she's handling herself, Cassian isn't about to abandon her. No man left behind. Cassian calls her name and when her head whips to the side and her posture shifts, he knows that his presence is more than welcome. He strolls up to her, adjusting his gait to a lethal causality, and slides up to her side.

"Cassian," Nesta breathes, and it sounds too much like a sigh of relief for his comfort. "Tomas, this my boyfriend Cassian. Cassian, Tomas."

She gives him a look, that if he's interpreting correctly screams, 'For the love of all things holy just please, please, play along,' at him. So he wraps an arm around her shoulder, drawing her into the protective hollow beneath his arm. Cassian presses a kiss into her hair. Just an act, he tells himself, this is just an act and that he stops to breath in her scent is just part of the show. If he enjoys the way her shampoo smells of vanilla and a floral scent he can't place, or the way that she leans into his side, small frame fitting snugly into the nook beneath his arm like she's been made for it, it's not that big of a deal.

Cassian reaches to shake Tomas' hand, and squeezes it hard. Enough to feel the bones shift and Tomas winces. It may be petty and incredibly alpha male of him to establish dominance like this, but the hungry glint in his eye that he has when he looks at Nesta, even with a girl on his own arm makes Cassian want to wring the scrawny bastard's neck.

"You left for drinks and when you didn't come back to the table, Nes, I got worried," he says looking down at her. Something flashes in her eyes, and Cassian figures he's pushing it with the nickname.

"I ran into Tomas, and we got to talking," Nesta explains.

She shifts on her feet, pressing in closer to his side. One hand goes around his side, the other resting on his chest with a casual grace and something deep inside him purrs at the contact, however small. If Cassian didn't feel her trembling, out of fear or anger he can't tell, he'd believe their act. That this is just a normal Friday night out for the two of them and that they're happily in love. But then she says something, so minuscule and in such an offhanded tone that he almost doesn't catch it.

"You remember me telling you about Tomas," she says, and it's then that Cassian realizes who he is, and why Nesta's clinging to him; why she's shaking. In an instant, he's consumed with rage. Complete and utter rage that boils through his veins. His fist clenches, so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

"Really?" he asks, a growl building in the back of his throat.

He's shaking now. Shaking with the pent up need to pound the asshat in front of him, the one who doesn't even have the decency to look concerned at his tone, into the ground.

But Nesta sees it. Feels the muscles in his chest pull taut, his grip on her shoulder tighten to where it's almost painful. Feels the growl rumbling and the overall atmosphere of the conversation shift to a much more hostile one. And for all her talk of wanting to cause a scene, Nesta just wants to get out of there.

"Cas," she says, and he's too busy glaring at Tomas to hear her, so she calls his name again, this time with more force behind it. "Cassian." Cassian looks down at her, sees the almost imperceptible shake of her head. He goes to ignore her, but she flashes her pretty blue eyes at him and says, "I changed my mind. I'm not thirsty anymore. Still up for that dance?"

Nesta graces him with a half smile, and adds a please. There's so much desperation and meaning behind that one word that he can't help but give in. So without another word, he takes her hand, and walks her out to the dance floor.


	12. Shut Up And Dance

Oh don't you dare look back

Just keep your eyes on me

I said you're holding back

She said shut up and dance with me

This woman is my destiny

She said oh oh oh

Shut up and dance with me

"Shut Up and Dance" by Walk the Moon

* * *

Cassian walks her out to the dance floor and wraps her into his arms. Her face is pressed into his chest. Mahogany and pine and sky fill her nose with hints of sweat and adrenaline. It's a soothing scent that calms her racing heart. Calms her until she can bury the panic; hide behind the shields of her fiery temper and back to her sisters.

It's not long though before Nesta struggles to breathe. She doesn't need the comfort. Doesn't need him, she wants to tell him, but Nesta realizes as her trembling subsides and it's his fists that are shaking against her back that he's not doing it for her. He's doing it for himself, so that he doesn't march back over there and deck Tomas in the face.

"Cassian," she mumbles against his chest, the sound reverberating through his chest. "Cassian, let me go."

His face is buried in the crook of her neck, hair tickling his cheek. He catches himself, and lifts his head.

"Sorry," he apologizes, voice gruff with pent up emotion. He doesn't know what he's apologizing for. For his callousness earlier; for not getting to her sooner; for being too close to her now. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hit a nerve or step on your toes. I…"

The stumbling words, the earnestness in his eyes. Nesta studies his face for deception and finds none. He clears his throat and looks away, suddenly feeling awkward.

Cassian towers over her, close enough to share air, but his focus is somewhere else. Hazel eyes search the crowded room, looking for what she doesn't know until they lock onto the bar again. His brow furrows and Nesta makes a noise of inquiry.

"He's still looking," Cassian tells her. His eyes flick back to hers and when Nesta attempts to look back, Cassian shakes his head. "Don't give him the satisfaction of looking back. Just keep your eyes on me."

Nesta counts her breaths and holds his gaze, willing him not to see too far, too deep. See the parts of her that haven't finished panicking. Better to keep him distracted, so she places a brazen hand on his chest. Sculpted muscle lays beneath the tight leather jacket, the warmth of him leaking into her palm. Fire— he reminds her of fire made flesh. She pushes gently on his chest, her hand somehow seeming smaller against the broadness of his torso. Her free hand reaches to his and places it on her hip, it's mate coming to rest on the opposite side.

Cassian only straightens as she dares a step closer, forced to do so merely because if he hadn't, her mouth and his would have found themselves with no distance between them at all. Nesta brushes her body against his, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it still makes him stiffen. Still makes his pupils expand to nearly devour those hazel irises. Unconsciously he rubs his thumb across the fabric of her shirt.

"Just shut up and dance with me, _prick_ ," she croons and he raises a brow at her. Her hips sway to the beat of the bass, and Cassian mirrors the movement. "If he doesn't see us dancing he might come over."

Cassian can't bring himself to step back from the line that is so clearly drawn between them. One moment, he wants to throttle her, then he'd seen the terror on her face, the fear and panic in front of that bastard, and the drive to protect her that's so strong that for one blinding moment he questions where it came from, and now this _seductress_. And in those blue-grey eyes, he could see the thoughts swirling in her as if they were smoke under glass. The cunning mind at work behind that face.

So he just… moves.

Cassian leans toward her, pulling her body flush with his. The beat of the music is intoxicating but none so much as the woman in front of him. It's how he would have danced with her had she said yes earlier in the night. How he's wanted to dance with her all night. Her breasts pressed against his chest and that thing inside him is purring again.

Mother and cauldron damn him both.

This woman.

 _Nesta_.

She writhes against him, turning in his arms, never fully leaving his grip. Nesta is swept away in the moment. The alcohol and the beat of the drums and the sea of bodies around them and Cassian and her guard are demolished. Everywhere he touches is on fire, and she lets his hands roam where they will. Her stomach. Her thighs. She grinds her ass into his hips and she smirks when she hears him hiss. When he leans down, Nesta finds herself tipping her head back, exposing her neck, granting him utter access as he grazes his nose against her throat.

Every instinct in his body comes roaring to the surface, so violent he has to choke them with a brutal grip or else he'll find himself on his knees, begging for a touch, for anything.

But then he leans in, and grazes the tip of his nose along the side of her neck. Cassian breathes in the smell of her into his lungs, stirring his cock as it latches onto some intrinsic part of him and sinks its talons deep.

 _Nesta Nesta Nesta_

Her eyes drift closed and a small breathless sound comes out of her. One that he wouldn't catch if he wasn't so close. Cassian brushes his lips over where his nose has touched, Following the same path his nose took moments ago. His knees nearly buckle as her slender hand reaches back and digs into his hair. He tries not to think of what that hand would feel like on other parts of him. Gripping him; stroking him.

 _More more more,_ his body sings.

He angles his head and kisses another spot, closer to her jaw.

Her frantic heartbeat is like hummingbird wings, though her body remains tight and loose in all the right places, a flush spreading across this gorgeous breast of hers. Big enough to fill his hands, to nuzzle until she's begging him—

Her pulse hammers right beneath his mouth. This tongue brushes it.

It's that touch that has her jolting forward.

Nesta slams into a nearby reveler hard enough that he reaches out for her. But she's wide-eyed and, livid, as she puts a hand to her throat. _Too far,_ she thinks, _she let this go too far._ The show she'd put on has gotten away from her and now she needs to get away from it.

So she flees.

Again.


	13. Can You Feel The Love Tonight

A.N.: This is what two months of crippling writers block gets you. And by you, I mean you the reader.

* * *

Can you feel the love tonight?

The peace the evening brings

The world, for once, in perfect harmony

With all its living things

"Can You Feel The Love Tonight?" from The Lion King

* * *

 _Meanwhile…_

Exhausted from dancing and in need of a brief respite, Elain makes her way back to the table.

An empty table.

Nuala and Cerridwen have done their job too well, clearing the table of everything including Cassian and her sister. Elain giggles at the thought of the two tiny girls, barely more than smoke and shadows, carrying her new brother-in-law away, their empty shot glasses stacked on his head to make transporting them back to the kitchen for washing easier. Rhys and Feyre trail after her, Amren at their heels, and resume their earlier seats, despite the over abundance of open ones. Noticing the tables distinct lack of drinks, Amren heads off to the bar, muttering bitterly something about "kids these days" and "needing reinforcements".

Mor sees them return and skips back to the table, Azriel's hand clutched in hers. If it weren't for the contented expression on his face, Elain would swear that she was dragging the taller man. The blonde throws herself down next to Elain and this time she does really drag Azriel with her. For being such a small spunky thing Az is constantly amazing at her strength. She wraps an arm around Elain's neck, drawing the middle Archeron sister far closer than what's socially acceptable. Elain isn't offended though, taking the role of the family's hostess and peace making middle child seriously.

"Elain, Elain, Elain," Mor says, leaning her forehead against her new cousin-in-law's shoulder.

Elain giggles and leans her head onto Mor's, brown curls blending with Mor's blond locks. "I think you've had enough to drink tonight, Mor."

"Oh no," Azriel says with a dark chuckle, leaning over his girlfriend to meet Elain's gaze. "Mor is no where near drunk."

"Yeah," Feyre adds, "You should see her when she really gets going. When I first started hanging out with Rhys we used to play this game…. What was it called? _What would drunk Mor do?"_

"No no," Rhys says, "It was _'What_ wouldn't _drunk Mor do?'_ "

Elain turns to Mor for confirmation, but a look on Feyre's face stops her. For a moment Elain swears she sees guilt across Feyre's face as she makes eye contact with Azriel, but he flashes her a wolfish grin and says, "More like 'Who _wouldn't a drunk Mor do?'_ "

"Et tu, Az?" she moans.

"What?" he shrugs. "That was before we were together, and you've got me to watch your back now. It's not like you go home with strangers anymore."

" _Anymore!?"_ Mor shrieks. "I never went home with…"

"Remember that one time with what's his face…" Feyre interrupts, snapping her fingers in Azriel's direction. "You know, from the circus… What was his name? Was it… Brad… Bro… Bron?

"That was one time!" Mor says, shooting up in her seat. She starts waving her hands trying to hush Feyre.

"I thought it was Hart," Rhys says.

"I could have sworn it was Bron." Feyre shakes her head.

"Both," Mor groans dramatically and drags a hand down her face. "You get drunk at one circus and they never let you live it down that you take home a couple of the clowns."

She props her elbows onto the table, and hangs her head in her hands, firm pout set on her lips. Mor avoids making eye contact with the rest of her friends, staring off towards the dance floor. She tunes them out, as brown eyes narrow in on a particular couple that make the teasing worth it. Something she needs to share, something that her friends and family need to see too. She whips back to her friends interrupting whatever snarky remark Rhys had been trying to make.

 _"_ _I can see what's happening,"_ Mor sings, throwing an arm around Elain's neck.

"What?" Elain asks, genuinely confused.

 _"_ _And they don't have a clue,"_ she inclines her head towards the dance floor, hoping that Elain, or anyone else at the table will catch on.

"Who?"

Using the tip of her finger, she guides Elain's head and points towards the couple on the dance floor. Cassian and Nesta. Nesta grinding on Cassian. Grinding and Elain is equal parts appalled and proud of her older sister. From the way that Cassian has his hands all over her it is a very much welcomed action.

 _"_ _They'll fall in love and here's the bottom line - our trio's down to two."_

Elain's eyes go wide and there's a collective, "Ooooh," from the table.

 _"_ _Ze sweet caress of twilight. There's magic everywhere, and with all this romantic atmosphere,"_ Mor continues and she shares a grin with Elain as the younger girl finally catches on, and joins her in the last part of the song, _"Disaster's in the air."_

"Oh it's going to be a disaster alright," Feyre says watching the pair. "My money's on Nesta."

A soft chuckle snakes along the table, and Rhys says, "So's mine."

"How much?" Mor asks turning to them, a mischievous glint in her brown eyes, and that's all it takes for bets to start flying.

Their attention shifts back to the table and away from the two just in time to miss Nesta fleeing from Cassian. Mor and Elain take Cassian's side. Mor because she's witnessed Cassian's tenacious pursuit in the name of love, and Elain, well, because someone needs to take pity on him.

Nothing can convince Azriel either way, however, and he tells them, "I don't know. Pretty sure the two of them are meant for each other."

It's then that Amren strolls up to the group, placing down another blood orange cosmo onto the table. Mor quickly fills her in and the shorter woman rubs her hands together with glee at the thought of new money lining her pockets. Mor cocks her head and asks why Amren thinks that money's going to be hers.

Amren snorts, "Oh that's easy. They'll be married by the end of the night."


	14. What Do You Mean

What do you mean? Oh, oh

When you nod your head yes

But you wanna say no

What do you mean? Hey-ey

When you don't want me to move

But you tell me to go

What do you mean?

Oh, what do you mean?

Said you're running out of time, what do you mean?

Oh, oh, oh, what do you mean?

Better make up your mind

What do you mean?

"What Do You Mean?" -Justin Bieber

* * *

Cassian is an idiot.

Nesta might as well have kneed him in the balls again for all the pain that Cassian's feeling. For once in his life Cassian is at a complete loss as to what to do. As much as he wants to chase after her, something in his gut tells him he can't. Tells him he needs to wait, to give himself time away from her and her scent and that thing that calls him to her and makes his very blood sing.

They'd been so close. Close to what Cassian isn't sure, kissing perhaps, but it felt like something… something more. Her outright rejection stings. Stings enough that all Cas wants is to punch something, or maybe get a drink, or two. So he heads back to the bar.

For a drink, he tells himself, and if that asshole, what's his face—Terrance? Tommy? Whatever the hell his name was, if that little pissant who upset Nesta enough that she'd be willing to dance with him—is there then maybe Cassian won't hesitate to pick a fight.

So Cassian throws himself down into the nearest bar stool. Elbows on the counter he presses his face into his hands, running them through his hair. He makes eye contact with the girl tending the counter. The girl, Cerridwen Cassian realizes with a start, sets down a glass startling him out of his thoughts. Bourbon neat, his usual for when he's nursing his wounds, as though she's been watching from the shadows, and if she's seen, there's no telling what his family's seen. Because he doesn't even know how he'd explain it to everyone.

To Mor.

His blood chills at the thought. Given their history and the torrent of emotions he can't make sense of.

She'd already made it clear how she felt, and just because he'd come to her rescue did not mean that Nesta was the type of girl to throw herself into his arms— even if she technically did. He's known Feyre long enough that any sister of hers wouldn't be won over by a handsome smile and cocky attitude. Hell, it took Rhys months of badgering and playful banter to get Feyre to talk to him without her calling him a prick, and meaning it.

He's going to have to face this as if he hasn't already had to apologize for being an ass already tonight. Man up, and apologize he decides. Because like it or not, Nesta is family now even if his royal pain in the ass brother isn't related to him by blood.

He can do this. Keep it platonic...

Ignore the way her scent calls to him and how he wants to drown in it.

The way her hair beckons to be touched. Even now his fingers twitch.

The way her lips beg to kissed.

Yeah, keep it casual, he tells himself. He throws the drink back toasting to the bitter tone of his inner thoughts and the fact that he knows, regardless of whatever pretty words he throws at her, she's more likely to throw a shoe at him than want to see him again.

* * *

Cassian is an idiot, a stupid, arrogant, vain, selfish idiot.

But then again, if Cassian is an idiot, then maybe so is she, Nesta considers, staring at her reflection in the dingy mirror of the club's only bathroom. Blue grey eyes, Feyre's eye, their mother's eyes stare back at her. They're wide with a feral sort of panic. Like a rabbit starring down a wolf, like prey, and Nesta frowns at the sight.

As much as she wants to blame him, to paint herself the victim of alcohol and a pretty face, she can't. Not after she made the choice to dance with him like that. Grinding on him and the whisper of his hands on her and how they might feel on bare skin.

She didn't want this… this… temptation.

Because that's what he is. The temptation to let him continue, to see where going home with him would lead is so very foreign to her that she slams down her hand onto the countertop. The pain temporarily breaking the spell he's cast on her. Nesta won't be swayed by a pretty face, no matter how ruggedly handsome she finds him.

Nesta could have walked back to the table; could have hired a cab and left the club altogether, but that would involve leaving Elain, who's probably drunk by now, alone in a group of people she barely knows and have dubious alcohol levels as well. Feyre's already three sheets to the wind, Nesta knows, based off the question that unequivocally halted 'Truth Drinks or Dare' earlier, and as much as she trusts her youngest sister, her choice in men is still questionable in Nesta's eyes. The last guy Feyre brought home ending up being a giant tool and Nesta knows that she still has the occasional nightmare from the trials she'd gone through trying to make it work with him.

A trickle of water echoes through the room as she turns on the faucet. Cupping her hands beneath it, she splashes her face. The minimal makeup she applied before heading out for the night isn't exactly waterproof, so she's careful where she puts the water.

Nesta braces herself on the counter, looking back into the mirror that's smeared and flecked with grime. Flushed cheeks returning to their normal paleness, she steels herself.

Yes, he is temptation and sin and sex incarnate in a leather jacket, but she is Nesta Archeron and she will not be enticed by some prick, no matter how much she wants to run her hands through his hair.

Nope not going to happen.

She dries her hand with a paper towel. The methodical rub of the coarse paper letting her formulate a battle plan. As much as she doesn't want to face him again, longs to put this night and all of it's weirdness behind her, she's going to have to do something. Tell him off for being so forward, or apologize for not being clear enough, she's not sure. She'll know once she gets there. Either way she needs to make a final stance and stick to it.

The cold bite of the doorknob sinks into her skin, solidifying her plan as though the chill has frozen the eddying waters of indecision in her head. Nesta throws open the door, with the grace of a solider entering combat, ready to face Cassian.

But she only makes it a grand total of one step out the door. One measly little step, not quite over the threshold of the doorway and she's stopped dead in her tracks. There's a body in her way, an unmovable force.

"You," she spits. Glare firmly fixed on her face. "What do you want?"

* * *

Reviews are my lifeblood.


	15. Fighter

'Cause it makes me that much stronger

Makes me work a little bit harder

It makes me that much wiser

So thanks for making me a fighter

Made me learn a little bit faster

Made my skin a little bit thicker

Makes me that much smarter

So thanks for making me a fighter

"Fighter" -Christina Aguilera

* * *

 _Tomas_

Of course it's him. As if this night can't get any worse. Obviously the Mother is playing some sort of sadistic game with her life, because there stands Tomas, the literal last person in Prythian she wants to see. Ever.

"Nesta. Baby," he slurs. The reek of stale cigarettes and cheap tequila makes her want to vomit. "I miss you so much."

Nesta doesn't have time for this. Not that her talk wth Cassian can't wait a few extra minutes, but she doesn't have the want or will to waste her breath talking to her lowlife ex.

The bathroom door slides closed with a deafening snick, leaving the only way out to run past him. Down the corridor, around a corner, and back into the crush of bodies on the dance floor. There must be another bathroom somewhere in here, she thinks, for the hallway to be so deserted in such a busy club.

She swallows, trying to shut out the memory of what he'd said the last time he'd seen her, the vile promises that he'd sworn he would do if he ever found the two of them alone in a dark alleyway. Nesta fights the urge to cower, to tremble before him. She attempts to duck around him, but as drunk as he is, his reflexes are still lightning quick as he moves an arm to block her path. Still she stands tall, stepping back like a lioness about to stalk prey, as though he hasn't phased her.

Bile builds at the back of her throat as he looms closer. He runs a clammy hand over the bare skin of Nesta's arm and she wonders how many showers it will take for her to stop feeling dirty after this.

"I'm here with someone," she says, pulling away from his touch. "And he's going to be looking for me." Her voice is firm, commanding almost, even if inside she's quaking in his presence.

"He's not here now." Tomas winks and the motion is utterly too calculated, as if he did watch their exchange on the dance floor, as if he, in all his drunken stupor, saw through their charade and knows that Cassian isn't expecting her any time soon.

"Excuse me," she says, words biting through the air, and moves to push past him.

But again he's too quick, and Nesta realizes, belatedly, that the drunken act is just that, an act. Before she has time to draw breath she finds herself pinned to the wall. Tomas presses one arm across her chest and Nesta can barely breathe.

Her mind is drawn back instantly to the last time she'd been this close to him. The night they broke up. There's a scar over his left eyebrow that she didn't notice before. It's fairly fresh, and Nesta would place good money on it matching the engagement ring, _her_ engagement ring, from where she'd accidentally backhanded him at the start of their fight. It wasn't long after that she chucked it at his face before fleeing to Feyre's townhouse.

She needs to get away. Needs to get away. _Needs to get away._ But how?

"What about the girl you're here with?" she asks. She knows its a desperate attempt to distract him, to keep him talking while she searches for a way out of this mess. If she can make it back to her sisters, the male presence alone at their table may deter Tomas. Who knows, maybe Rhys will have a chance to prove his dedication to her sister by coming to her aid.

"Amarantha?" he snorts, and then spits the resulting mess onto the ground. As if the sneer on his face and the disgusted tone of his voice didn't clue Nesta to how he really felt about the woman he'd been sucking face with not more than fifteen minutes prior, he adds. "That whore. She's probably slept with half of Prythian by now."

Her body is frozen, but her brain is scrambling, scrambling, _scrambling,_ for some way out of this. For one fleeting second she almost hopes that Cassian comes after her, that he sees Tomas and flies into a rage, beats him to a pulp. It would be no less than what he deserves.

Tomas launches into what sounds like a well rehearsed rant about their doomed relationship, but she tunes his words out, knowing he's just spewing hatred at her, trying to tear her down. Instead she takes a calculated inventory of her chances of escaping this nonviolently.

"A year and a half," she finds him spitting, breath putrid, when she does snap back to reality. "I wasted a year and a half of my life, because you wanted some sort of commitment before you'd sleep with someone, and even after we got engaged, you still wouldn't give it up. Said you were waiting for _marriage_ to give up your virginity. _"_

"As if you weren't screwing other girls behind my…" Nesta spits back, but Tomas presses himself against her, harder, effectively cutting off her air supply.

"Why don't you just admit it, you want this? You always have." The words are bitter and mocking and send shivers down Nesta's spine at the cruelty of them.

"I've never wanted you," she gasps as the pressure on her chest eases a bit. "You're not worthy to even look at me."

Some part of her had known no future lay with him. Knew about his hateful father, and that he did nothing to prevent the man from beating his mother. She'd barely let Tomas kiss her when they were together, and that day when she had ended it, he'd…

The sound of her tearing top…

Only this time it's not in her nightmares and cold air brushes across her exposed chest. She looks down in a panic. He's torn her shirt, one hand desperately attempting to make it's way into her bra and the other already undoing the buckle to his belt.

He expects her to be a meek mouse, to take whatever he's about to do to her. Because she never spoke up, never questioned the rumors she'd heard about his family until it was too late, and last time she'd been utterly unprepared for the rage.

Something in her snaps.

And this time, this time, she's more than prepared. A year of self defense training at her local gym kicks in and it's Tomas' turn to be caught completely by surprise.

Nesta's clawing and scratching at his face. Nails dig into his skin and she feels the pop as they break through, making him bleed. He shifts his free hand up into her hair and yanks on it, hoping that she'd let go. It doesn't work. One of her legs breaks free and loops around the back of Tomas'. She gives a tremendous shove, and it knocks him off balance.

But it's not enough to completely knock him off his feet. He stumbles backward, and one of his hand grabs onto her shoulder. Its hard enough to leave bruises on her pale skin and drags her along with him. She's ready for it though, and lets his momentum carry her forward. Forward, driving a knee straight into his groin while the heel of her hand smashes up into his nose. There's a sickening crack and Nesta knows she's broken it.

"You bitch," he hisses, but Nesta draws her fist back, and lands one more punch directly to his battered nose.

A thud resounds through the hallway as Tomas' body hits the floor. He groans pathetically, but makes no move to get up. She gives him another kick to the stomach and refusing to turn her back to him, scrambles away from him to the nearest wall.

Nesta braces herself on her knees breathing heavily and takes stock of herself and her surroundings. Her shirt is torn irreparably, it hangs open to her naval, and there's a gash that runs from the bottom of her bra to the middle of her stomach, from where he must have scratched her. There's a pain on her neck. She runs a gentle finger over it and realizes he must have bit her in the struggle. The wound is shallow just enough to draw blood, but Nesta knows that it won't leave a scar.

Her breath comes in pants as she gazes down at Tomas' prone body. He's not going to be getting up for a long, long, while.

She's free. She's free. She's free.

She hears a noise from the end of the hall, and her head snaps up to meet a very familiar pair of hazel eyes.


	16. So What

_Surprise bitches! I wasn't done yet!_

* * *

I'm gonna get in trouble  
My ex will start a fight

Na na na na na na na, he's gonna start a fight  
Na na na na na na na, we're all gonna get in a fight!

"So What" -P!nk

* * *

 _He's frozen. Frozen. Frozen._

He'd come ready to grovel if need be, in the hopes of salvaging some sort of friendly relationship to where they can at least be able to exist in the same room, but the macabre sight that greets him as he turns the corner stops him in his tracks.

 _Nesta, cornered by that man from the bar._

He knows he should be reacting; springing into action, his military training and every instinct he possesses screaming at him, a deafening roaring that syncs up to the pounding of his heart, the adrenaline to fight; to protect. He's seen live combat, taken down enemies much bigger than the scrawny, useless lump of a man that has Nesta in his arms, but somehow he can't find the ability to move.

 _Nesta, being degraded by that piece of scum._

It's a physical pain that rips through him at the sight of her so helpless, as though some sort of dark magic has torn through him, stealing his breath and leaving him aching. The vile things he's spitting at her filling him with a rage that roars through him. The biting words that make him want to tear down mountains, rend this man in half until he's nothing but a steaming pile of entrails for humiliating her, that he would have the audacity to degrade any woman that way.

 _Nesta, fighting._

And though the soldier in him analyzes her stance- the way her hand curls into a fist and braces herself before snapping out at the perfect angle, connecting at just the right spot knocking her opponent to the floor- and admires her technique.

Nesta, panting, bleeding, but alive and free. A warrior goddess in the flickering of the overhead lights, and his heart is bursting with pride (and just a tiny bit turned on) at her tenacity.

He breathes her name, the spell over him breaking, and hurries towards her.

She shrinks back, pressing herself against the wall, and scooting back as far away from the asshole on the floor as she can get before she reaches a corner. Cassian halts in his tracks. She's a deer in the woods, trapped by a wolf, with her wide-eyed look of panic. Cassian holds out a hand palm outward, slowly approaching the girl.

He stops, torn between placing himself between the asshole and Nesta and keeping an eye on the injured man. Cassian's close enough that he's not encroaching on her personal space, but close enough for her to reach out. He crouches down, making himself smaller, less intimidating. His height works against him.

The man groans at his feet, and Cassian scowls. He knows what he should do: wait with her until the cops come, give his statements, but he can't leave her here, leave her cold and shivering half naked in the back hallway of a club, where anyone can stumble upon them. He can't rescue her, couldn't stop the attack from coming, but he can get her out of here. He needs to get her out of here. Biting back the wrath that still threatens to consume him- the one that demands he lay into the man, Tomas he remembers offhand, that he break every finger that lay a hand on Nesta, bloody the face that would spew such hate-he rubs a hand over his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Slowly, carefully so as not to startle Nesta further, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He doesn't break eye contact, relying on muscle memory to call the club's head of security. He growls out terse commands, knowing that Devlon will take care of calling the cops. Even if Cassian didn't see what started the altercation, the club is littered with security cameras. The area is known for being a rougher one, but Rhys has done everything within his power to make the club the safest he can for his patrons.

"Nesta," he says again, voice soothing. "Come with me? Please?"

Cassian reaches out a hand, waiting for her to take it, letting her make the decision to come with him. An eternity passes as he waits, and he's sure there's some pleading that bleeds into his eyes.

A smooth palm slips into his, and he almost collapses in relief. She nods, a slight dip of her head, and Cassian pulls her to him. He expects her to shatter, to crumple in on herself weeping, but she doesn't. She's calmer now though, the cadence of his voice, the stillness of his body, the submissive posture, working in tandem to ease the girl.

"Not- Not back," Her voice is raspy and cracking, but she doesn't need to finish the sentence for him to understand.

"I know a place," he says with a nod, lump forming in his throat at the intrinsic trust she's placing in him.

He pulls her into an alcove, a pocket of darkness in the otherwise busy club, that leads to a hidden door. Cassian makes a mental note to remind Rhys to replace the burned out bulbs in the hallway. The door leads to a staircase and Nesta hesitates to walk across the threshold, to walk off with a man she barely knows. Cassian senses her reluctance.

"Rhys has security cameras everywhere," he promises, pointing to the camera that's nestled into the corner of the wall. "Even in the offices."

Her eyes flit to the camera and then to Cassian, and then heaves a sigh with a decisive nod. Pulling the remnants of her shirt tighter over herself and follows her sister's new brother-in-law up a flight of stairs and into the unknown.


	17. Battle Scars

These battle scars, don't look like they're fading  
Don't look like they're ever going away  
They ain't never gonna change

"Battle Scars" -Lupe Fiasco, Guy Sebastian

* * *

Cassian leads her up a flight of stairs and into Rhys' door shuts behind them with a decisive snick, and Nesta's surprised at how well the soundproofing blocks out the din from the club below. She can barely feel the deep reverberations of the base through the soles of her feet. He sets her on the couch with a gentle request for her to stay there while he fetches supplies to treat her wounds, and then ducks into what she assumes is the adjoining bathroom.

His rage barely mastered, Cassian sets about finding whatever medical supplies Rhys and Feyre have stocked in the cupboards. They keep the office well stocked, almost a second apartment, in case any of their makeshift family needs a place to crash after a rough night of drinking, and the Mother knows that Cassian's seen his fair share of drunken bar fights. _Started them, and finished them._ He can't remember if Nesta's bleeding, or if that good for nothing bastard only left bruises on her body and on her psyche. He should have done something. Something more to protect her, defend her, to show him that no one treats his…

It's not until there's a soft clearing of her throat that Cassian realizes he's been growling to himself.

"Cassian," she calls softly and he turns to see her standing in the doorway. There's something in the way she's holding herself, hands clutching the tattered remnants of her shirt closed in front of her. The bruises, already a deep purple, on her exposed collarbone. The wash of unshed tears shimmering in eyes, the ones she refuses to let fall. She radiates such fragile vulnerability that his heart breaks all over again.

He struggles to swallow the lump that's formed in his throat, before answering with a hoarse "Yeah?"

"The cops—the cops," she says, flinching at the words, "They'll want a thorough inventory of my injuries."

It takes a moment for the words to process. Long enough that it catches him off guard when she reaches for his hand. The touch of her fingertips on his palm, the instant eruption of flames, startles him. Its infinitely too brief as she slips her phone into his palm, camera app already open and ready to go. He stares down at the device and the way that her hand lingers over his.

"Cassian?" she says in a whisper when he still doesn't respond. He looks up to meet her gaze, unwavering determination shining in those blue grey eyes, but beneath that an undercurrent of apprehension. She shouldn't trust him, barely knows him and yet here they both stand.

Cassian nods dumbly, and she sheds the scrap of cloth that used to be a shirt. It, along with the last bit of her dignity, falls to the floor, the lightest fluttering of fabric. Yet another sound that will echo in the nightmares to come.

The shutter sound of the camera echoes though the room as he documents the utter horror of her wounds. The angry cut that runs from chest to naval bleeds sluggishly. He moves slowly, catching each injury from multiple angles, and adding them to the list of injuries he'll need to repay.

He sets the phone down on the counter, and gestures for Nesta to join him further in the bathroom so he can clean and dress her wounds. He fumbles for a second, trying to leave enough room for Nesta to move comfortably though the space. She glides to the counter, setting herself down with far more grace than he expects. But once on the counter, a distinct hollowness creeps its way into her posture, a defeated slump to her shoulders that she can't shake off. Cassian doesn't know how to fix it, how to help, and the more he thinks about it the more he begins to panic until words flow out of him.

"I just turned eighteen when I fought in my first battle," he says, his words at odds with the gentle brushing of his pads of his fingers against the bandage. She tenses, back going ramrod straight at the realization that she's trapped herself in the presence of another unfamiliar man, and an even more dangerous one at that.

But something, some still quiet part of her that grows stronger with every passing minute, whispers to hear him out. An ache in her chest to ease the growing hysteria she sees in his eyes, that she can feel radiating from him. Feyre trusts him, and after Tamlin, Feyre still lets very few into her inner circle.

"Rhys had a little sister, you know?" he says. It's technically a question, but he's not really looking for an actual answer and though Nesta didn't know the right answer, doesn't understand how it all connects, she nods, if just to get rid of the shadows that have suddenly slithered in Cassian's eyes. "Cutest thing ever. Coal black hair and she had these eyes. His mom's eyes. Rhys has 'em too. Sometimes he'll look at me a certain way and I'lll be back in the kitchen laughing with them over some prank Az and I pulled on Rhys that day and his mom's smiling at me with those eyes."

Cassian scrapes a hand through his hair, strands left hanging in his face, and Nesta itches to brush it back. She restrains herself though, balling her hands into fists in her lap.

"A couple months before school ended, in the dead of night, the three of us, Az, Rhys and me, snuck out. Thought it would be fun to sneak into the club to hit on girls. We were supposed to be there. We couldn't have known." Cassian shakes his head, trying to clear away the memory. "Drive by shooting. No way to identify who it was, but we knew. Of course we knew."

An odd sort of haunted note commingles with a smoldering rage.

"Rhys' dad was working nights then, here at the club, and he just went ballistic. Told us that we should have known. Should have protected them. That it was our job and we'd failed. Rhys was his heir, the one who'd inherit his empire when he died, and Az, well Az's dad was his friend and he couldn't rightly just abandon him, but me," he laughs. It's manic and sends chills down Nesta's spine.

"The Prythian army will take kids when their seventeen, if they have a guardian's consent, and of course he was more than willing to consent. The ink was barely dry on the paperwork when he told me I could get the fuck out, and wasn't allowed in his presence until I'd proven myself a man."

"So there I am, in the middle of the first conflict with Hybern, barely eighteen and didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground. I get separated from everyone else. Didn't realize it til it was too late and I was already cornered in a back alley by an enemy solider. If you could even call him that," he chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "And the kid, Mother above, he was just a kid, a fucking kid, and we were at war and it was either him or me and there was no way that I wasn't making it back home. Rhys and Az had lost too many people and I wasn't about to be another one, but he and I knew what would happen if he didn't kill me and I wasn't about to die there in some Cauldron-forsaken alley in Hybern.

"And after that day, after my moms, and sister, and that boy in that dusty alleyway I swore— _I swore—_ I would never let any one hurt another innocent, not when I had the ability to stop it. That I could think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most."

* * *

A.N. Yes I realize that Rhys' mom and sister aren't his actual mom and sister, but whatever. I'm allowed to take creative liberties. Anyone who wants to argue with me can eat it. They're the mom and sister of his heart.


End file.
